


Sleeping on the Blacktop

by hellstrider



Series: NEONFLICKER [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV), Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Pacific Rim Fusion, Arya and Sandor are the best murder daughter and murder dad ever, Aunty Dany, Chickenleg, Cuddles, Drift Bond, Drift Compatibility, Drifting, Fights, First Kiss, I love Wingman Ygritte, I love Ygritte my chaotic little flame daughter, I'm a SLUT for PacRim AU'S, Jaeger Pilots, Jaegers, Jon and Ygritte are best friends, Jon is FIESTY, King's Landing Shatterdome, Lion's End, M/M, Marshal Daenerys, Night's Watcher, Sparring, Sweet, The Drift (Pacific Rim), This is gonna be big too lmfao, Tormund is Famous, lmfao i was weak have theon/robb too, whew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-06-24 08:08:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19719637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellstrider/pseuds/hellstrider
Summary: "Tell Giantsbane I'll do it. I'll meet him in the Dragonpit." Jon turns away from his aunt as her smile grows sly and knowing. "But don't expect anything! He's alegend, Dany, a legend.""I never said I expected anything!"Jon spins about to walk backwards, arching a brow at the white-haired Marshal. "I know you, I could feel it.Don'tgive me that look."





	1. blue jeans, white shirt

**Author's Note:**

> WELCOME to my Pacific Rim AU!!!
> 
> The title of this work is the song of the same name by Colter Wall
> 
> The title of the chapter comes from Blue Jeans by Lana Del Rey

“You’re joking.”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

Jon glances to his aunt; Dany tilts her head and cocks a brow, her clever lips twitching at the corners, and he gives her a somewhat pleading look.

“I can’t fucking _tell_ when you make that face.”

“You can say no. It was just a request.”

“I can’t – say _no?_ To one of the _Wildlings?_ Giantsbane is a _legend.”_

He was also, Jon thought, quite possibly insane. Truly. Not figuratively, not in any sense of insult. Truly. Giantsbane had been at the wall when it was attacked, had been the man to put the Kaiju down – and he’d done it _alone._ He was a man of steel and a man of fire, someone that walked the halls of the Shatterdome and made them _tremble._

And he’d asked to face Jon, man to man, in the Dragonpit.

“I can’t believe he made a _formal request._ Who does that?”

“You’re the nephew of the Marshal. Of course he asked.”

“I don’t _want_ special treatment.”

Dany rolls her eyes and looks out across the Shatterdome’s bustling bays. At its height, King’s Landing held up to thirty Jaegers at once, the second largest of all the ‘Domes. Jon had never seen the base in Hong Kong, but to think it was even bigger than this – it boggled the mind.

Here, at the tail end of 2023, the base was home to a modest seven Jaegers; Grey Kraken, Wild Rose, Lion’s End, Chickenleg, Sand Snake, Night's Watcher and a pale beast known only as The Ghost, because no one could seem to meld in the thing long enough to get it out of the bay.

“You’ve worked hard for this kind of attention,” his aunt says blithely, and she reaches out to gently shake his shoulder even as he folds his arms over his chest. “You have! Don’t look like that. But you’ve not been compatible with _anyone_ you’ve faced in the Dragonpit; you’ve just obliterated them. You can’t blame him for being _curious.”_

“That’s because _Greyjoy_ swooped in and stole Robb.”

“You can’t steal someone away from being drift compatible.”

Dany’s hand lights on his cheek then and Jon looks away from where Ygritte swings on a chain from the Grey Kraken’s empty neck. His aunt’s violet eyes go soft around the edges in the way they do when he’s being spectacularly _Targaryen,_ and he can’t help but go a little weak in the middle of his chest.

“I’m _proud_ of you, you know that, don’t you? Your uncle would be too.”

Jon’s throat goes thick and he feels like he’s all of eight years old again. “Dany…”

“No, stop it. I get to say it. Ned was a good man, and a better pilot. He’d be so proud of you. There’s no rush to fall into the drift, darling. If you want, I can tell Giantsbane you’re not interested. He’s an odd sort, but he doesn’t take much personally.”

Jon chews his cheek and sways into the steel railing. Ygritte catches sight of them and waves from where she’s hanging; Dany waves back and Jon rubs a hand over his brow. A living legend wants to meet him – _him –_ and as he watches his cousin and Theon _fucking_ Greyjoy laugh as they head for their Jaeger to check in like worried parents, he grinds his teeth.

“Tell him I’ll do it.”

“Hm?”

“Tell Giantsbane I’ll do it. I’ll meet him in the Dragonpit.” Jon turns away from his aunt as her smile grows sly and knowing. “But don’t expect anything! He’s a _legend_ , Dany, a legend. _”_

“I never said I expected anything!”

Jon spins about to walk backwards, arching a brow at the white-haired Marshal. “I know you, I could feel it. _Don’t_ give me that look.”

His aunt shakes her head, lips still pulling up at the corners. “Love you!” she calls after him, and Jon waves a hand as he turns the corner and trots down the stairs to the lower floor of the Shatterdome’s massive Jaeger bay. An arm slides promptly into the crook of his elbow and Jon looks down to a head of vivid red hair.

“That looked excitin’,” Ygritte quips; she smells like oil and electricity. God, Jon wants to be inside a Jaeger so badly. “What was Aunty talkin’ about?”

“Tormund Giantsbane wants to have some time in the Dragonpit.”

“So?”

“With me, Iggy. With _me_.”

Ygritte halts abruptly and Jon staggers, nearly sending a flailing arm into another tech as they wander by. His best friend grips his arms in her tiny, fierce hands and affixes him with a sharp, burning stare. Jon arches a slow brow.

“You’re not fuckin’ with me,” she breathes after she’s searched him sufficiently. “Oh my God. Oh my _God._ Oh my God?”

“Shh,” Jon hisses, putting a hand over her mouth she promptly licks. “Oh, fuck me –“

“What’ve you done to get that kind of attention?” Jon is a little hurt and it must show, because Ygritte rolls her eyes. “Apart from utterly decimate everyone they’ve tried to throw at you. Oh. Maybe that’s it. He _did_ pilot the True North alone. Maybe he’s just a masochist.”

“Could we let me revel in this for a _little_ , please, just for – a _day_ , maybe.”

“When’s it happening?”

“No idea. He made a formal request through Dany.”

Ygritte sways back, eyebrows popping up. “ _Oho._ So, is it a _fight_ or a _marriage proposal?’_

“Iggy…”

His ears go a little red. He’s only ever seen the man in person from afar – a massive beast befitting his callsign, with long, gold-red hair down the center of his head and tattoos on the shaved sides.

Ygritte, who reads him as easily as a picture book with no words, grins like the cat that’s just got all the cream presented before her and Jon runs a hand through his hair, hating her a little.

“Oh, this’ll be _fun,”_ she purrs, laughing a little breathlessly. “You _have_ to tell me when it is. I’ll find out if you don’t, you know I will. I’ll be there either way.”

“Maybe I’ll have Drogo bar you from the Pit.”

Part of him is regretting telling her, but the other part, the part that’s electrified by the mere thought of meeting the Wildling in the arena, is delighted. Ygritte’s enthusiasm is as infectious as ever, even to the half of him that’s going to drag him down in mere hours and tell him it’s all a fluke.

Ygritte’s gaze narrows. “You wouldn’t. You _need_ me there, Snow.”

She punches his shoulder and Jon mouths an offended ‘ _ow’._ It’s not the force of it – her knuckles are _bony._ Ygritte beams and slaps her palms to his chest like she’s beating a drum before she hops away, heading back down the corridor to the Jaeger bay. She leaves streaks of grease on his white t-shirt and Jon despairs.

“So you’ll let me know?”

“ _Yes_ , Iggy,” he huffs, fondness blooming through his gut. “I’ll let you know.”

“ _Love_ that! Gotta get back to it! Don't forget!"

Ygritte shoves away then, shooting him a thumbs up. He watches her until she vanishes, then shakes his head and turns to head for the mess. It’s close to five and the trainees and Rangers alike are pouring in from their various stations to load plates with food and finally sit for the first time in fourteen-odd-hours.

Jon sweeps through to drop kisses on Sansa and Arya’s heads, to get a wink from Margaery and a glower from Clegane before he heads for his bunk. There’s a figure lounging against the door and Jon halts abruptly in his tracks, inhaling so quick he might as well have sucked down his own tongue.

“And here’s the man of the hour,” comes the deep, rolling drawl of the Wildling barring his room. “The undefeated, incompatible, _immovable_ –“

He bristles, and the sharp grin he gets from beneath an even sharper mustache only makes it worse.

“Fuck off.”

“ _Jon Snow_.”

Giantsbane kicks away from the wall, moves like a lion in a cage as he saunters towards him. He’s as big as one would think the body inside a Jaeger should be, muscles pushing at his white tank top, huge arms covered from wrist to shoulder in a myriad of chaotic, colorful tattoos.

“Little bird tells me you’ve accepted my offer.”

“You could’ve come to me, you know.” Jon is rooted to the spot as the Wildling looms over him, smelling of smoky aftershave and something vaguely like cedar. “Marshal Targaryen doesn’t dictate what I do.”

Giantsbane laughs, a thing like a Jaeger moving through stone.

“And you would’ve done what you just did and told me to _fuck off_. Heard it’s about as difficult to get you into the Dragonpit as shaving a cat nowadays, and when you do go in, you fight like a Kaiju fresh from the fuckin’ Breach.”

He sways in close. The movement is lithe, precise. Jon can’t seem to bring himself to move away.

“Thought it’d be easier to let someone who knew how to handle you try. And it worked. Our little silver leader tells me you’ve accepted.”

 _Handle_ him?

Jon is briefly rendered speechless – he knows he’d heard something of him to want to ask Dany to meet him in the combat room, but it still jars him. Along with the fact that those eyes are _so_ blue, and his hair is more like fire than Ygritte’s, gold touching through the red.

He sports a tapered beard as red as his hair, long and braided like a fucking Viking’s across his skull, complete with golden bands and all. There are knots and runes down each shaved side, painted onto him permanently in cobalt and black.

There are scars, too, scars over his arms, scars that lace over his neck, beneath a smattering of vivid red roses covering the entire left side of his throat. One scar cleaves one of his sharp eyebrows in two, a deep, dark thing. It just narrowly misses his eye, and Jon swallows hard. There’s so many stories on him, both in ink and in gnarled skin.

Giantsbane also has a septum piercing, a gold thing that’s strangely ornate, and gold baubles curving both ears from tip to lobe. He looks like a Viking and he dresses like a mechanic, oil on his blue jeans and combat boots so ragged he thinks they might fall apart if he moves too quick.

It should all be ridiculous but it’s not, somehow. On anyone else, it would be ridiculous. On the Wildling, though – on him, it’s just – _striking_. He dresses like a mechanic and looks like a Viking and he took down a Kaiju _alone_ at the wall and lived to tell the fucking tale.

“When,” Jon clears his throat, and Giantsbane lifts a slow brow. “When did you want to meet in the Pit, then?”

“Those _nerves_ I hear, Snow?”

And this – _this_ riles him. Jon lifts his chin and his jaw clenches, his teeth needing to bite down into steel. Giantsbane looks like he can smell it on him, if his slow, unraveling grin is anything to go by.

“They won’t let you back in the cockpit alone, so you pick the next best fight, is that it?”

He’s like the sun and the moon all at once; the grin goes a little deadly, then fades and Giantsbane’s sharp features harden, razor-edged and stony.

“ _Careful,_ Snow,” he burrs, and much to his horror, Jon goes hot all over, “don’t wanna have to rip those guts out through that pretty white throat to prove you right.”

“Right about what?”

“You know what they say about me.”

Giantsbane sways back then, coiled and controlled as a serpent. He digs into a pocket and sticks a cigarette between his teeth, and Jon wonders what it’ll be like to see this man fight. The thought thrills him and terrifies him in equal turns. He stares at his tattooed knuckles as he lights the cigarette.

The curling words spell out WILDLING. Because _of course_ they do.

And then Giantsbane is speaking again, and Jon’s gaze snaps to his face.

“You’re not the only incompatible bastard in this ‘Dome, Jon Snow. But they won’t let you into a metal giant, and they won’t give me one. You and I deserve better battles than the fuckin’ little birds around here can give us.”

Giantsbane fills his lungs, then holds out the cigarette. Jon holds those blue eyes through the smoke and, after a long beat, reaches out to take it. He puts it between his teeth; it’s high-end, not usually the kind the pilots usually smoke. The Wildling gives him a wicked little grin, and when he offers the cigarette back out, he doesn’t take it, stepping back instead.

“Be at the Pit tomorrow, Jon Snow. Oh-nine-hundred. Don’t be late.”

It’s no surprise that sleep is a long time coming. Jon’s head is still spinning long after he showers and falls into his bunk, and even though he’d brushed his teeth and swished with mouthwash he can still taste smoke at the back of his tongue.

The numb shock hasn’t worn off by the time his alarm blares through the early morning. Jon, exhausted down to the bone and hating his stomach for being full of wings half the night and then utterly twisted the rest of it, slams the snooze button and shoves his head under his pillow.

Everything is numb, _except_ his stupid stomach. He rolls out of his bunk after spending quite some time staring up at the ceiling, listening to the low thrum of the florescent lights that flicker on when he tosses out an arm.

_Pony up, Snow. Holy shit._

He shakes himself, splashes cold water over his face and spits in the sink. After tying his hair back, Jon pulls on his track pants and a white shirt and doesn’t let himself slow down, doesn’t let himself pause to think as he makes for the door of his bunk.

_You and I deserve better battles._

Ygritte shoves off the far wall as soon as he emerges. Jon swallows back a groan and she laughs, teeth caught around the white stick of a lollipop.

“Told you I’d find out.”

" _How?”_

“Giantsbane’s in the ‘Pit already. Half the ‘Dome knows.”

“Wonderful.”

“It’s just a fight,” Ygritte drawls. “Unless you’re, like, _afraid_ of losing, or somethin’.”

“I’m sure there’s only too many people who would be delighted to watch that happen.”

“Hey.”

A little hand catches his arm and Jon halts. Ygritte’s gaze is hard agate now, expression suddenly serious.

“You really _are_ nervous,” she says quietly, and Jon huffs. “Wow. I ain’t ever seen you like this.”

Jon chews his bottom lip for a moment, then herds the redhead towards a little nook in the wall, ignoring her protests.

“What if I’m like him?” he asks quietly after a beat, and Ygritte’s brow furrows. “Just – incompatible. With anyone.”

_Undefeated, immovable –_

Ygritte’s lips purse around the white stick in between her teeth. “So what,” she says finally, and Jon frowns. “So what if you’re incompatible. Not being a pilot isn’t the end of the fucking world, Snow. We always need help in maintenance. You could train people, like Jaqen and Drogo do.”

Jon’s chest goes tight and his throat thick at the thought. “All I’ve ever wanted for the past eight years,” he says hoarsely, “is to be a Ranger. Is to be – _out there,_ fighting this fight.”

“I _know,_ Jon. But there are other ways to fight.”

“Not for me.”

Ygritte rolls her eyes so hard he thinks she might get a glimpse of her own brain.

“Okay. So. Don’t give up.” Ygritte jabs a finger into his chest and he grunts. “You’ve been _sulking_ ever since Theon and Robb became co-pilots. Don’t give me that look! You have! So you didn’t get to play fuckin’ knights in real life with your best friend, _so what?”_

Jon bites on his cheek. “You’re my best friend, Iggy.”

“Yeah, _now.”_ She rolls her eyes again and Jon's tempted to tell her they'll stay that way. “God save me from your fuckin’ tantrums. You wanna be a pilot so fuckin’ bad, Snow? Then get the fuck over yourself, and get in that combat room, and _be compatible.”_

She shoves at his chest with the last few words, and Jon knows she’s right, he does. Ygritte grins, because she knows he knows, and Jon tuts and shoves gently at her smug face. The mechanic laughs and crunches through her lollipop, tossing the stick in a nearby trash can before slapping the back of her hand into his gut.

"Don’t be chickenshit. Go kick some Wildling ass.”

His chest blooms with warmth and before Ygritte can shove him away, he pulls her into a tight, crushing hug. She whines and jabs at his ribs until he lets go, and after taking a deep breath, he sways back into the corridor, the mechanic following close behind.

The Dragonpit is, secretly, Jon’s favorite room in the entirety of the King’s Landing Shatterdome, even though he's been avoiding it in his pity party. The vast, high-tech combat room has a sleek floor of dark charcoal and walls of raw stone, as it’s built far into the mountain upon which King’s Landing juts out of over the Pacific Rim, just outside Tokyo.

The room is sprawling, with five different arenas marked by lighter grey mats for sparring and a full gym along the sweeping back wall. The vaulted ceiling glows with the florescent lights hanging in bars, and panels of black line the upper walls to buffer the sounds of fighting and working and training that fills the place at any given moment of the day.

It’s a pleasant, familiar soundtrack - the cacophony of fist to flesh and laughter that always permeates the Dragonpit. It reminds Jon that they’re still here, still alive; even as the world was split open, they’re still here, learning how to better fight with each passing day.

At first, everything looks business as usual, and Jon thinks Ygritte must’ve been pulling his leg, but then he emerges into the Pit proper and the closest arena comes into view.

Jon’s stomach bottoms out.

His cousins are all here, and with Robb comes Greyjoy. Sansa and Arya stand together, talking lowly, and somehow Bran has managed to weasel his way out of training and is sitting nearby. The trainees that aren’t being herded back into their place by Jaqen hover idly around the edge of the mat for as long as they can, Rickon’s curly head amongst them.

Dany is there, which, he supposes he should’ve known she would be, but still. Her husband stands beside her, the effigy of golden skin and long black hair looking as stoic and intimidating as ever. Giantsbane is already on the mats with a bo-staff in hand, swinging it idly; he doesn’t have other Wildlings with him, which Jon finds a little odd.

Jon doesn’t linger over the man. He heads down the stairs, Ygritte behind him, and Dany’s violet eyes, bright with laughter from something Drogo said, looks towards him. Her grin is _blinding._

“You look like you’ve pissed out all your blood,” Drogo grunts by way of greeting, and Jon peers narrowly up at his uncle. “He’s not a Kaiju.”

 _“Ignore_ him,” Dany says, shooting a look over her shoulder. She follows Jon’s gaze to his cousins. “I tried to keep it quiet, I’m sorry. Someone had other plans. Drogo managed to keep the other pilots away, though. And half the host of mechanics.”

“ _What,”_ Ygritte demands when Jon glances narrowly towards her, feeling a little betrayed. “I was _excited.”_

“You gather an audience whenever you fight, little stallion,” Drogo huffs. “It’s a mark of a good fighter. Be proud of it. Unless –“

“Unless I lose, yeah, I got it,” Jon finishes dryly, and Dany says something in sharp Greek to her husband that Jon doesn’t pay enough attention to. Ygritte snorts, though, and Drogo looks properly chagrined even as he answers defensively.

Jon ignores his aunt and uncle. The only way this is going to be made better is if he just dives in, and so he heads for the rack of bo-staffs at the edge of the softer rubber floor. He twirls it into his back and ignores the excited titter that rushes through the nearby trainees, ruffling Bran’s hair when he passes the boy.

Robb catches his eye as he’s about to hit the mats, grinning wide with two thumbs up. Greyjoy just lifts a sardonic brow, but Jon ignores him. Sansa gives him a small smile where she stands with Arya, and the one he shoots back is one he doesn’t really feel.

"Snow!”

Jon steps up onto the forgiving mats and turns his gaze to the Wildling that brought down a Kaiju on his own. Giantsbane is bare to the waist, and he’s all muscle and scars and ink, and Jon feels woefully underprepared. He steps forward to meet the man, and when he offers out a bound arm, Jon clasps it.

“You bring the audience, Snow?” His blue eyes look almost cerulean in the harsh lights.

“Fuck, no.” Jon glances to the small huddle. “But you tend to make waves. I’m sure you know that.”

“You want me to make them leave?”

This takes Jon a little aback. He narrows his eyes up at the Wildling, who lifts one sharp brow. His tone was sincere, almost familiar, as if Jon had confided in him that he’d rather this all remain under the radar – which, he sort of does, but there’s something about the eyes that rove over them that also makes him feel as if he’s a little bit of a god.

“You’d tell the Marshal of King’s Landing to beat it?”

“The only ones that matter in a fight are the ones getting hit.”

“Please don’t infuriate my aunt.”

“The others?”

“Also my family. Won’t be moved.”

Giantsbane’s mouth twitches.

“They always did say the Starks were like wolves. Alright, Snow. Your pack stays.”

After a beat, Jon is about to step back, but a linen-wrapped hand suddenly catches his chin and his heart all but launches into his mouth. Those piercing blue eyes zero in on him and he can’t seem to catch his breath.

“You stay _here,”_ Giantsbane orders quietly, and Jon’s brow furrows. “Nothing outside this ring exists. Stay in the fight, Jon Snow. Distractions do not bring down gods, and when you step inside one of the metal giants, you will become one.”

Jon holds that stare for a moment longer, then nods. Giantsbane’s lips curve and then he’s stepping back, twirling the bo-staff with ease, as if it’s an extension of his own body as he moves to the edge of the mat. His back is all muscle and scars, and across his shoulders is a stag’s skull with a triple-pointed knot carved into its forehead.

He has all but a moment to get his legs sturdy under him before he’s being charged at like he’s a matador and the Wildling is a rabid bull. Jon dodges with a thundering heart, the slap of wood to skin a whip in the air. Thighs stinging, Jon twirls and barely has his staff up in time to block when Giantsbane brings his down in an arc over his head.

Those eyes look like the Pacific Rim itself, blue wreathed in flame. A slow, feral grin unfurls over the Wildling’s face, and Jon grits his teeth as he sweeps his staff away and tries to aim for his knees. It opens his arms, and he shouts, nearly drops his staff when Giantsbane batters both biceps with hummingbird quick strikes.

“ _Get your head in the game, Jon!”_ Robb shouts, and Jon inhales so fast it’s audible. Giantsbane holds his gaze, sways like a jungle cat about to pounce, and then he does.

Put on the defensive, all Jon can do is try and anticipate where Giantsbane will strike at next. He can hear Robb shouting something else, can hear Rickon’s cheers, even Drogo’s booming voice – all of it clatters against him and he can feel his chest growing tight.

His knuckles bruise easy as peaches when Giantsbane lands a lucky strike. He’s fast, faster than a man his size has any right to be; Jon tries to swipe at his ribs and lands a hit, but Giantsbane slams his staff into his back and then sweeps his legs out from beneath him. Jon hits the ground and rolls into a swift crouch, his breath punching in and out of his chest with a life of its own.

What the _fuck_ is happening? Jon is better than this, he knows he’s better than this.

_Undefeated, incompatible, immovable –_

Jon lunges with all the force he has and Giantsbane’s smile is the only warning he gets before the man surges to meet him with a laughing roar that shakes his bones. Their staffs strike with enough force it makes his palms ache, and Jon bares his teeth as he twirls and blocks another hit aimed for his hip.

“ _There_ you are,” Giantsbane snarls with a grin. “Good boy.”

It unfurls in his gut and Jon uses the force of Giantsbane’s shove to spin away and land his heel in the pit of his knee. The Wildling growls, nearly pitching down, and though he blocks Jon’s next swing, his chest swells with adrenaline and blinding ecstasy. The thrill of the fight begins to consume his anxiety, devouring it as a Kaiju might iron and stone.

_You stay here._

_Nothing outside this ring exists._

Steel unfurls over Jon, slides down his spine. He forces himself to focus on the Pacific Rim eyes, the hair flying like fire, the color of the tattoos lacing those huge arms. He memorizes the curve of the scar cutting through one sharp brow and counts his own heartbeats.

_Stay in the fight, Jon Snow._

The shouts begin to fade. His cousin’s voices blur and bleed together until all he knows is white noise, the war drum of his heartbeat, and the soft exhales that grow calm despite the fire in his veins.

Jon takes hits and he begins to land them, but all he truly feels is the push and the pull – there’s a tether between them now, a cord that goes from his spine to the center of the Wildling’s chest. It’s much less a fight, more a dance, and Jon laughs breathlessly when he lands a strike on Giantsbane’s thigh, only to take one to his ribs.

He feels – he feels _light._ His body moves in response to Giantsbane’s and vice versa, their steps woven together as if they’d planned it all beforehand. His knuckles are bleeding and Giantsbane has a welt the size of Jon’s thumb on his ribs, but he doesn’t think either of them can really feel their wounds.

Time becomes a non-thing, something that exists only as an idea. Their shouts and grunts echo through the space that is theirs, and only theirs, and it’s all Jon can hear. He laughs and Giantsbane bares his teeth in fierce grins, the gold that drips from him gleaming under the bright lights.

He thinks he could do this forever. Energy floods through him, brings new life to his skin that feels like armor. Giantsbane ducks under an arcing swing and comes close, so close; Jon meets him in the middle of the mats, their staffs clinging as those blue eyes burn down to the center of him.

_Undefeated, incompatible –_

Jon slams his staff against Giantsbane’s, and the force of it sends the Wildling staggering back. He dives after him with heat down his spine, counts his strikes before they land and manages to put his staff into his waist and burn a welt over his shoulder.

Jon ducks and rolls under a sweeping swing, hits the mat and pops up behind Giantsbane.

The world _shrinks._

He swings his staff and twists, leaving his gut open wide as the Wildling goes low and all but bares his throat.

Everything _stops._

Jon can hear his lungs fill and empty. The end of Giantsbane’s staff hovers just over his belly, and Jon keeps his right at the Wildling’s pulse, where the red rose paints his skin. The Wildling lifts his chin, the cords of his throat as strong as the ones in Jon’s forearms, and Jon thinks that the world truly must’ve fallen around them, because all he can see is this.

And then; “no _fucking_ way.”

Sansa sounds like she’s in awe. Reality comes trickling back in with his cousin’s startled exclamation, but he doesn’t look away from Giantsbane. Neither of them moves, poised like statues caught in some eternal struggle. And then the Wildling smiles, and this time it’s a slow, curling thing that Jon’s gut mirrors.

“Holy _shit,”_ Arya blurts.

Finally, _finally,_ Jon brings his staff away from Giantsbane’s throat and the Wildling lowers his own, huge chest still heaving. He breaks the tension of their stare and looks to where his cousins linger, but the first one he sees is Ygritte.

His best friend is watching him with a smug sort of pride in her green eyes, another white stick between her teeth. Her lips are stained a little red from the new lollipop, and when they curl into a grin, Jon thinks she looks more like a wolf than any Stark he’s ever known.


	2. go big or go extinct

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Lead on.”
> 
> “You’re - ?”
> 
> “Going with you, of course I fucking am. Go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ayo it's that sweet ass DRIFT babeyyyy
> 
> also the first three chapters of my original novel will be premiering on august 10th, here, on AO3! it will be posted chapter by chapter on patreon for a monthly fee, along with writing advice, art, witch tips, astrology, and more!
> 
> love y'all  
> title from the song in the pacific rim soundtrack, which was also composed by ramin djawadi, who ALSO did game of thrones. meant to be? i think so.

_‘Robb!‘_

Greyjoy’s voice rips through LOCCENT like a tornado through glass, and Jon’s gut launches into his chest as a figure in white plummets from Grey Kraken’s shattered helm in the distance. Wild Rose is on the Kaiju – one of two, _two_ impossibly giant beasts borne of the sea – before it can rip through the rest of the Kraken, but it’s too late.

_‘Grey Kraken is down! Grey Kraken is down!’_

Lion’s End tangles with the second beast, a thing with a head like a hammer and a mouth that keeps dripping neon green ichor. Chickenleg aims for the beast’s spine, but it whips around at the last minute and the Jaeger staggers, Arya’s vehement cursing echoing off the dark walls of mission control.

On the HUD, a third red dot appears, and Dany curses in a way Jon’s never heard before.

Robb hits the water and Jon is moving before he can think twice, shoving away from the HUD and darting around Dany’s grabbing hands. A shadow is swift to follow him, huge and hulking and, lately, _always fucking there._ Jon shoves into the corridor, mind already made up, and Giantsbane is right on his heels.

“Snow!”

Jon whirls around, a fight between his teeth and fire in his throat. Giantsbane grips his nape and shakes him, hard – Jon fists a hand into his tank top and thinks he should probably be pushing him away. He doesn’t.

“Breathe,” Giantsbane commands, harsh and low, and Jon grips his forearm hard enough it’ll leave bruises. “Hey! Breathe.”

Jon grits his teeth, but he does. Begrudgingly, he does, and a piercing roar from one of the Kaiju rips through the floor beneath their feet. Giantsbane searches his face then, seems to come to the correct conclusion and then jerks his head down the corridor.

“Lead on.”

“You’re - ?”

“Going with you, of course I fucking am. Go.”

Jon, heart in his mouth, stares up into those piercing blue eyes for only a heartbeat longer. As Tormund arches a brow, his resolve goes bulletproof and Jon breaks away – when he does, Giantsbane follows.

The Shatterdome becomes a blur around him as Jon weaves through the labyrinthine halls, the elder ranger close behind him. He doesn’t bother with the lifts, taking the stairs instead two or three at a time, and by the time they’ve reached the Conn-Pods, he’s certain he’s about to vomit up his own heart, the fear a solid rock in his gut.

“ _Snow?”_ Jorah Mormont lowers his glasses down his nose, the glowing light from his tablet washing out his lined face. “What on earth –“

“You’re putting us in Night’s Watcher,” Jon says firmly, “Grey Kraken is down.”

“I am aware,” Jorah says with all the tried patience of a man addressing a child throwing a tantrum, “you aren’t cleared for duty – Giantsbane in particular has several tests –“

“Tests,” Giantsbane snorts, “you were at the fucking Wall, Mormont. You remember what the fuck I did, don’t you?”

“How could any of us forget?” Jon looks around as the lead Jaeger technician, Davos, appears from the shadows and approaches with his hands folded behind his back. “But it’s been some time since you’ve been in a Jaeger, Giantsbane. And never with a partner.”

Jon meets the older man’s gaze. It’s often unreadable, but it’s always fierce in a way he admires; Davos was one of the original pilots, stood alongside Ned Stark when he fought the first wave of beasts from the portal in the middle of the sea.

“Davos,” Jon starts, but he’s cut off when the floor trembles beneath them and a roar echoes from multiple HUD’s across the launch bay. Jon’s chest burns and for a moment, he thinks he might be having a heart attack when he hears the faintest notes of Sansa’s voice.

“Wild Rose standing at fifty-six percent, sir,” calls a technician, “she’s going to have to come back in!”

“You know I can do this,” Jon bites out then, still staring at Davos, and he tastes acid at the back of his throat, “you know _he_ can do this. You need us. The Sand Snake is out of commission. There are three fucking Kaiju out there, and Hong Kong’s backup won’t fucking get here before they reach the mainland. People are going to _die.”_

_They already are._

Davos glances sidelong to Mormont.

“Ready Night’s Watcher!” barks the former, gruff and biting, and the technicians watching the little show _scramble._ “Get these men suited! Let’s go, your fucking lives depend on it, move! Get a bay open for Wild Rose!”

All the air punches from Jon’s lungs and he nearly doubles over. He barely has time to try and regain the feeling of his own feet on the ground before he’s being herded across it, technicians chattering and swarming about them like bees to honey. Jon throws a glance towards Giantsbane, who arches a brow and flashes a deadly, humorless grin.

They’re stripped and sealed into the circuitry suits as a stream of technicians and medical personnel rush across the steel bridge. Jon can feel the weight of Giantsbane’s presence as they’re sealed into black plates of bulletproof armor, can feel the burn of his stare as technicians graft metal spines down their backs.

“Night’s Watcher ready for launch!”

“Wild Rose returning to base!”

“Any eyes on Stark?”

“None so far, sir!”

Jon thinks he might be sick – and then there’s a hand cupping his chin. He lifts his gaze; technicians hover nearby with their helmets, stayed by Giantsbane’s hand as he watches Jon with all the intensity of a hawk about to dive for prey.

He looks magnificent, Jon thinks wildly, and his brow is beading with sweat as he craves the burn of steel around him. Giantsbane looks _magnificent_ , with his sleek tapered beard and long, wild red hair laced with braids and beads, dressed in an armor that seems to suit him better than the skin underneath.

“Stay in the fight,” Giantsbane says, somber and quiet, only for them. Jon feels it, too – feels it when the moment becomes theirs, when the world seems to freeze just for this; “stay in the fight and stay with me. You’re about to become a god, Jon Snow. Distractions don’t bring down Gods.”

Jon bites down on his own cheeks and gives him a curt nod, tongue too numb to try and move. Giantsbane seems to understand him nonetheless – as he has these past few days, always has, even in the middle of painting bruises across each other with fists and staves – and after flashing another clever grin, he steps back to take his helmet.

The relay gel sinks away and Jon’s lungs flood with the tangy oxygen from the tanks inside the suit. Davos watches appraisingly nearby, Mormont still looking harried as he taps something out on his tablet.

"You have the green light from LOCCENT,” Jorah says gruffly after a beat; “gentlemen,” Davos says, spreading out one arm towards the narrow corridor leading further down the launch bay.

Night’s Watcher’s helm is a big, black hunk of steel with a visor of blue glass, and little hints of white bleed through the dark paint where it’s been abused over the years. More technicians swarm the bridge as the lights flash and a voice echoes over the loudspeakers, shouting orders Jon doesn’t listen to.

_Any eyes on Stark?_

_None so far, sir!_

When the Conn-pod door hisses open, all he knows is metal. Jon steps inside the mind of a Jaeger for the first time, and his entire body thrums with it when he does. Their twin thrones of iron unfurl from the ceiling and Giantsbane looks almost ravenous as he steps up onto the left side, his nose furled into a snarl, white teeth glinting.

They put the controls in Jon’s hands and the stirrups seal around his feet as his spine is glued back to what amounts to the Jaeger’s brainstem. He doesn’t look towards Giantsbane – but he doesn’t need to. Soon enough, he’ll feel him – Jon grits his teeth when the softest, smallest shred of doubt rushes down his spine. What if they don’t meld? What if they’re caught out of the drift, and he’s left helpless?

_Stay in the fight._

And that’s just it, isn’t it? Only a week he’s been in the orbit of Tormund fucking Giantsbane, and the elder ranger is already _in_ his head. Jon takes a deep breath just as the Conn-pod _jolts,_ and his stomach launches into his throat as the helm of Night’s Watcher plummets down its assigned chute. A roaring, wild laugh echoes off the metal walls and Jon finds himself clinging to the sound, finds himself wishing he knew what it felt like.

The Conn-pod hits Night’s Watcher with a solid boom, and Jon’s chest surges with an adrenaline he’s never felt, one he’s not sure is entirely his own. He swallows hard and grips the circular controls tight as Giantsbane hums low, a burring sound that soothes the back of his neck and spreads down his metal spine.

_‘Hello, gentlemen. Synchronization is complete – initiating neural handshake in sixty seconds.’_

Dany’s voice echoes through the comms as the HUD blooms to life, bright neon cutting through the metallic dark. Jon is relieved to hear his aunt’s voice, strained though it might be; his body is heavy and light all at once, the points of connection to the Jaeger starting to seep through his skin and settle over his bones.

_Stay in the fight._

_Stay with me._

“Snow.”

Jon glances to the left. The smile Giantsbane gives him this time is almost lazy, carefree in a way Jon envies. They’re surrounded by metal, about to face beasts that can bite through the crust of the world, and Tormund fucking Giantsbane looks like he’s relaxing by a pool at some Venetian resort.

“You chase the rabbit, and I’ll come after you. Understand me?”

It’s impossible. You chase the rabbit, you die. Jon watches Giantsbane for a moment and a computerized voice begins to count down from fifteen. In the lights from the HUD, Tormund’s eyes almost seem to glow neon, becoming so vivid it reminds Jon of the fire that drips from Kaiju’s gaping mouths.

This is a man that hides a beast beneath his skin. If anyone could chase someone into the throes of madness inside the drift, it would be him.

“I believe you,” he says, and Giantsbane’s grin grows sharp.

Everything goes still. Everything goes silent, and still, and Jon can’t feel his own body. Giantsbane looks away and shuts his eyes – Jon pretends he can hear the crash of battle outside, and the computer announces calmly, ‘ _neural handshake initiated.’_

Jon knows he can feel light. Everyone can. You can feel the light of the sun, can feel the light radiating from a lamp that’s been left on for too long. He knows a person can feel light – but he’s never felt it like this. It’s as if it sweeps around him in a miniature tornado, the softest wind that he imagines shines even brighter than sunlight over snow.

Visions bloom across the shield of his eyelids, ones he recognizes and ones he doesn’t. Neon lights blur together like oil across water and then there he is – Jon watches himself strike down a faceless opponent in the Dragonpit, and his gut twists. This is Giantsbane’s memory, a memory of watching Jon – he wants to chase it but doesn’t, lets the visual slip through his fingers and morph into something new.

It’s as if someone has poured cool water across his skull. Robb’s grinning face flashes through his hindbrain; he sees Sansa, and Arya, Bran and little Rickon, still so small in his mind. He hears the vicious crack of the Breach, sees a Kaiju he recognizes from the ink on Giantsbane rear back as a Jaeger slams a fist through its throat.

A heartbeat that isn’t his own whispers through his chest. Jon clutches at it, a little disoriented as the memories begin to soften – and then, all at once, the neon lights shatter like glass and all he’s left with is the heart that thunders alongside his own. He tastes mint at the back of his tongue, and smells cedar and sage thick beneath his nose.

Strength floods through him, a new kind, a fearless kind, and his breath punches out of him as reality crashes back in and the Drift settles around them like the kindest snowfall. Jon looks to Giantsbane, who looks absolutely _feral_ with it, and when the man laughs, Jon _tastes_ it.

It’s a splash of green apples across his tongue, of whiskey and tequila and something he can only compare to the way steel looks. It’s wild and it’s sour and sweet and it’s _free,_ and Jon gasps through it as he tries to commit the taste of the man’s laugh to memory.

‘ _Impressive, gentlemen,’_ comes Dany’s voice, ‘ _neural handshake stabilized.’_

“Left hemisphere calibrating,” Giantsbane announces, and Jon feels it when he moves his arm, lifts his own without thinking of it. The grind of metal shoots through him – with a thrill, he raises his right arm, testing the newly forged bond. The Pons interface ripples with it, and Jon feels it when the Jaeger moves, almost as if it’s a far bigger phantom of himself that cases his body.

“Right hemisphere,” he calls, “calibrating.”

‘ _Full calibration complete’,_ the computer says serenely.

_You’re about to become a god, Jon Snow._

‘ _Night’s Watcher cleared for deployment.’_

Lightning cracks across the ocean as the bay doors hiss open, and Jon thinks his chest might swell to bursting as a whisper of _fightmovewin_ rushes down his spine and his legs lift into action. A thrill possesses him, grips him tight, and Giantsbane snarls like a beast to his left.

 _‘Night’s Watcher deploying,’_ Jon calls through the comms, and his body is split into three entities that move as one as the Jaeger heaves out of the Shatterdome.

His thighs ripple with it when Night’s Watcher lands in the water. The storm is a blazing thing around the island, a thing with almost as many fangs as the Kaiiju they fight – the beasts are closer to shore, too close, and Jon tastes Giantsbane’s roar when they both break into a galloping sprint through the tumultuous sea.

Chickenleg is sparking from one elbow. Lion’s End still fights with a viciousness befitting the twins inside and Grey Kraken – Grey Kraken stands in the middle of the water, lifeless and empty, its helm split open and burnt with the poison from the beast that ripped into it. He has a flash of another memory, watches as a Kaiju falls and sinks into the waves at the shattered wall, and Giantsbane lets out a bellow both inside the vision and out.

Jon’s heart surges into his mouth. They’re close enough to the tail end of the island that Robb might have – he might have – _don’t. Not now._

A rush of memory surges around him, tumbling through his skull; a calloused hand under his chin, sharp blue eyes boring into his. His family was around him, and he was incompatible, and he was about to fight a _Wildling_.

_Stay in the fight._

_Distractions don’t bring down gods._

Jon heaves forward and Giantsbane moves with him. He can feel the bulk of the man; it’s as if Jon has slipped inside Giantsbane's skin and unfurled beneath it, moving into the cracks where he was empty and weak. Jon moves into the empty spaces inside Giantsbane and the man becomes a shield around him in turn, until they create the titan they steer on to face the hell-beasts risen from the ocean floor.

It’s natural as breathing, when Jon raises his arm and hears the Jaeger’s metal roar around him. It’s as natural as breathing, when they bring that arm down onto the curved spine of the third Kaiju just as it moves to sink its teeth into Chickenleg and rip it in two.

The beast shrieks, a grating, rippling sound that makes Jon’s skin pebble and his stomach churn. It looks akin to a raptor of some kind, with a sweeping plume of hardened flesh over its slender head and a pair of beady, neon yellow eyes piercing the storm like the cruelest kind of lighthouse. Its skin is a dusty charcoal, riddled with scales and valley-like wounds that burn deep, lava-orange.

“The head!" Jon bellows, his voice straining. They duck under one of its flailing arms, and he finds himself bellowing with rage when they bring their Jaeger’s own up to cut across its jaw.

“Aye!” Giantsbane shouts, “tear the fucker apart!”

The Drift inhales around them. Jon sees his own body dart away from Giantsbane in the Dragonpit; he surges for him now, reaching ever for the clutch of trust around him, and the Wildling is waiting for him.

‘ _You have backup from Hong Kong coming,’_ Dany shouts over the comms, ‘ _T-Minus eight minutes! Just keep them fucking busy!’_

Jon almost asks about Robb. Almost. But then, a flash of blue eyes rushes across the forefront of his memory, and the Drift sighs as he sinks deeper into it. If he leans out of the Drift, they’re lost. If he breaks that, Giantsbane will hurt for it, and they’ll all join Robb in the water.

They swing into the Kaiju as Lion’s End rips into one of the hammer-headed beasts, and Jon throws an arm into the air only to bring it down right over one of the valleys crisscrossing the beast’s body. It screams, a thin, reedy sound that grates down his spine, and magma oozes out over its scaly flank. Giantsbane laughs, the rush of him better than any high, and Jon bites his lip to keep back a begrudging smile. This is life or death – he shouldn’t be smiling, but with the thrill of the man under his skin, he can’t – he can’t seem to stop it.

In the Drift, Tormund Giantsbane is a presence that is _immovable._ Even as they flow from memory to memory – even the ones Jon thinks he should blush through, even the ones that are so achingly private he thinks he should turn away – Giantsbane’s energy is like granite around him. He’s the safety net beneath the tightrope that Jon walks, and he’s not sure how it could be possible, but it is.

‘ _Jaegers from Hong Kong inbound in five minutes!’_ There’s a sound like the earth being split in two behind them, and Dany snarls, ‘ _one down.’_

In his periphery – the Jaeger’s periphery, really – the gold and crimson beast of the Lion’s End comes into view. The Jaeger is coated in dark blood, the air reeking of it, and Tormund whoops as the Lannister’s lion-headed Jaeger crashes into the Kaiju tangling with Chickenleg, who’s shoulder is now sparking along with its elbow.

Their Kaiju gives a rippling bellow, and they duck under another cresting swing. The battle of Kaiju against Jaeger is a slow one, and if he’s honest, Jon thinks it might be far more savage for it. Jon unfurls from his crouch and Night’s Watcher surges to meet the beast, swinging at the thing’s maw and sending it staggering sideways.

“The head!” Jon snarls, “get the fucking head!”

The phantom of Giantsbane’s hands curl around his own. He reaches for the beast’s plume and feels it when they grip it, bone-hard and oddly lumpy. Night’s Watcher twists its hands around the hook of the thing’s head and _heaves._

Magma sinks into the sea as they drag the Kaiju forward, the horn atop its head breaking with a wicked, horrific sound. The Kaiju squeals and writhes, swiping out with serrated talons – Night’s Watcher is too slow, and Jon cries out with it when the brutal claws gouge through the Jaeger’s metal side. He lurches as Giantsbane barks out a curse, dull pain radiating through muscle and bone.

“Mother _fucker,”_ Jon heaves out; all he sees is a flash of yellow before the Kaiju is on them. The rippling shriek it gives is one of sheer fury, and at the back of its throat, Jon sees neon blue gathering fast – a cruel blue, one so unlike the color of Giantsbane’s eyes. If the beast gets a chance to use the wicked power in its belly, they’re done for.

Memories gather as a hurricane around him. Jon presses up against the hold of the beast, and Night’s Watcher mirrors him. Steel grinds against leathern hide, and when the magma-blood of the beast rolls over the Jaeger, Jon’s skin burns. Dany says something over the comms, but he doesn’t hear her.

The phantom of Giantsbane surrounds him, arms pushing up under Jon’s, hands closing around his own, and he grits his teeth into a snarl as he strains against the Kaiju’s horrifically powerful forelegs, bulky and raptor-like. It snaps its maw what feels like inches from their visor, and Giantsbane lets out a slow, hurtling roar as they heave up against the beast.

He sees the wall coming down. He sees the Conn-pod of a Jaeger that holds a single pilot, the chamber showering sparks and half-decimated as the same roar that surrounds him now ripples through the vision. Jon sees the coral Kaiju, brilliant in the sunlight, as it lifts its huge, dinosaur-like head and shrieks to the sky.

‘ _Backup arriving, backup arriving –‘_

Jon sees the Dragonpit. The staves meet and strain, tension rippling through the polished wooden weapons as an unstoppable force meets the immovable object. But this time, when he looks up, the eyes staring back at him are his own. Jon sees himself, sweat beading his brow, black curls tumbling over his brow, and proper defiance gleaming behind his own dark eyes.

Emotion floods through him, both his own and Giantsbane’s. He can hear the man’s snarling pants to his left and Jon clings to the sound of his heartbeat. Fear rolls into anger, anger rolls into pride, pride into excitement.

Excitement blurs into admiration and admiration into want, melting finally into a tangle of desire and need that has Jon’s tongue aching and his chest writhing with a patina of _live, you fucker, live._ It’s the sharpest kind of desire he’s ever felt, one that tastes like the finest liquor and burns twice as violently through him, and it’s not entirely foreign.

It’s both his and not, both his and the man his mind is twined with, something so beyond intimate, and it’s not until that moment that it hits Jon, hits him hard as any blow could that this – this is the closest he’ll ever be with another human being. The first time he’s ever been so close, and it might be the last. The Kaiju shoves hard at the Jaeger, gaping maw opening as neon blue gathers and gathers, and the metal groans.

And Jon isn’t ready to let go. Now that he knows what Giantsbane’s laughter tastes like – sunlight and whiskey and green apples and flying and falling all at once – he’s not going to let it go.

_Stay with me._

When the roar comes, this time it belongs to him. Something shatters in his chest, and Jon moves as if he were fighting Giantsbane all over again. His body curls tight and he snaps an arm close into his side, tucking and ducking to the Kaiju’s left. Night’s Watcher rolls through the sea, and the Kaiju shrieks furiously. Jon lifts his face as it makes to chase them, just in time to watch a blur of grey steel slam into the beast’s ribs.

A new, unfamiliar Jaeger comes soaring through the water, and Jon feels Tormund’s raucous laughter all the way down to his marrow. The Kaiju shrieks under the new assault, and Jon sweeps around in synch with his co-pilot to follow. The new Jaeger brings a fist down into its spine and Night’s Watcher swings for its gaping maw, catching it just as the beast roars.

It’s a horrible sound, when the Kaiju’s jaw dislocates and shatters its pained shriek. As one, he and Giantsbane reach for its lolling tongue as the other Jaeger rips the bone-horn from its head entirely, removing most of its skull in the process. The beast comes utterly undone as Night’s Watcher pulls its throat from its massive, heaving neck, Giantsbane holding it aloft like a trophy.

It’s a foul, foul death, but Robb might’ve had just the same kind of death, and Jon bares his teeth in a macabre kind of grin as the thing collapses into the sea. A throttling cry pierces the sky then, and they turn in synch to watch the last Kaiju spasm and collapse, Chickenleg and Lion’s End both absolutely coated in its acidic blood.

The silence after the brutality is almost staggering. Jon can hear the dual pattern of his and Giantsbane’s heartbeats, and the pulsing, burning desire in his gut only triples when he chances a glance towards his co-pilot. Giantsbane slumps back against his steel throne and his piercing blue eyes are so bright, so fucking bright in the light of the dying storm, when they flicker towards him.

 _Well done,’_ Dany says hoarsely after a beat, ‘ _well done, rangers.’_

“Are you,” Jon swallows hard, “sending a team?”

‘ _Robb Stark has been located at the coast.’_ He shuts his eyes; at the coast. Robb might be alive. He could be alive. ‘ _Rescue is in route. Back to base with you, Ranger. You’re no use to him in that metal giant.’_

She’s right. He knows she’s right. Jon also knows that if he asked Tormund to stay here with him, he would. He shoots a glance towards him and Giantsbane meets it with one brow arched in question. A helicopter’s blades beat the sky overhead, and Jon is silent for a long, lingering moment before he shakes his head. Whether Robb is alive or not, he can’t do anything about it here.

Jon knows he couldn’t do anything about it either way. He’s no medic, and he can hear the rescue team coming, the chopping of the helicopter replacing the thunder as the storm dies. Tormund looks and feels as exhausted as he does. Jon wants to reach out for a blinding, foolish moment – and the other man knows it, going by the softness in his eyes, and the way his emotions curl into something hot and gentle deep in Jon’s gut.

The rescue team lands, and Night’s Watcher turns back to the Shatterdome, following behind Chickenleg, still sparking from elbow and shoulder.

Hooks sink into Night’s Watcher’s Conn-pod and heave the helm from the shoulders of the Jaeger. Jon sways with the movement, sore eyes shut and back aching. As the Conn-pod sighs to a halt, Jon lifts his head and carefully pries his hands from the controls. The neural handshake begins to peel back as the computer says things he doesn’t listen to, leaving him feeling beyond shaky at the core, empty and a little too cold.

“Easy,” comes a deep, burring voice, and how did Giantsbane get loose so fast?

A strong hand comes up under his own and Jon grasps it tight as he steps down from the suspended steel of Night’s Watcher’s brainstem. Tormund is the only other one in the Conn-pod still; his helmet is already gone, wild red hair damp where it rests over his shoulder. His eyes gleam a far gentler neon, and they’re both alive, and Jon knows what his laughter tastes like.

He knows what his _laughter_ tastes like.

With careful hands, Giantsbane lifts his helmet up and away, and Jon is dizzy with the onslaught of fresh air, his body feeling a tad weightless; he lifts his gaze to meet those blue eyes, and his stomach swoops when the Wildling cups his nape and brings their heads solidly together.

“Should’ve come here sooner,” Giantsbane says, voice a little hoarse, and the words curl up tight and hot in the pit of Jon’s gut. “Should’ve found _you_ sooner, Jon Snow.”

Jon shuts his eyes. The door of the Conn-pod hisses open and technicians flood in to run their tests, to check their pilots and assess the pod for repairs, but Jon stays right where he is. He slides a hand over Giantsbane’s breastplate, hooking fingers into the neck to keep him close, and remembers what his heartbeat felt like when it thundered right alongside his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jon: now what does his DICK taste like am i right ladies


	3. surrender (as we let go)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Huh,” Arya hums, and Jon arches a brow at her. “Wondered what the ring was about.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!!
> 
> title is from let go by seven lions
> 
> here's the last chapter of just this particular little snippet of this series, there is MORE COMING i promise
> 
> also!! august tenth!! the first three chapters of my OG novel is premiering HERE, for free!!! it'll be coming out monthly after that on patreon, along with art, writing advice, articles and astrology shit!
> 
> love u all!!! xoxo

“He sustained some memory loss from the fall or being ripped from the Drift so fucking fast – though that should just be temporary. In all honesty, I’m just surprised he’s even alive.”

Jon watches the nurse through the glass as she flashes a little light into Robb’s eyes and barely hears what Arya’s saying. Robb looks a little dazed when the nurse moves away; he’s got cuts all over his face from his helmet shattering in the water and a broken leg, splinted with steel rods and elevated above the hospital bed.

He’s a little worse for wear, and he doesn’t remember the fight, but he’s alive. Jon looks around when the door at the end of the corridor clicks open and Sansa returns from wherever it was she ran off to. She looks a little defiant when she glances between them, and Jon understands why when, not thirty seconds later, the same door bursts open with a clatter and a wild-eyed Theon Greyjoy comes hurtling into sight.

“He’s awake?” the ranger all but shouts, and he sounds about as horrible as Robb looks, his sandy, shoulder-length hair pulled back into a mussy bun and dark, dark shadows carved under his eyes. His face is sallow, tacky with the sweat of being under florescent lights for a little too long, and there’s a nasty set of stitches over one of his eyebrows and a deep divot in one lip.

A nurse hurries in after him, protesting about being out of bed, but Greyjoy doesn’t listen. Jon takes a step back as the ranger rushes past and pushes into Robb’s room; his cousin sits up straight on his bed, eyes going wide, lips forming Greyjoy’s name, but then Theon is taking his face between his hands and Jon has to duck his head.

“Huh,” Arya hums, and Jon arches a brow at her. “Wondered what the ring was about.”

 _“Ring?”_ Jon demands, and his cousin tips her head; he follows her gesture to the nightstand beside Robb’s bed, where a platinum band on a chain rests alongside his glasses. More than a little stunned, Jon shoots Sansa a glance.

“You can’t be that surprised, Jon,” the red-head says, “come on.”

He absolutely can.

“Gendry owes me fifty yen,” Arya says blithely, and Jon turns his gaze briefly back to the scene in the hospital room.

Robb looks – well, _soft_ , like this. Greyjoy clutches at the front of his gown so tight his knuckles are white, and Robb reaches up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind one of Theon’s ears as he speaks low and quiet, brown eyes huge and going red with tears. The nurses bustle about their business, giving them some semblance of privacy, but it doesn’t look like they’re aware of anything but one another in the moment.

“They’re sweet,” Sansa says quietly then as Robb threads the silver chain around Greyjoy’s neck through his fingers and draws out a matching ring from under Theon’s scrubs, curling his hand around it as he pulls the other man close.

If Jon’s being honest, he feels guilty. He feels guilty for being so cold towards his cousin in the wake of the discovery of Robb’s and Greyjoy’s compatibility – of course, it makes total sense now. Jon can’t even imagine what they’ve just been through, especially now that he’s been caught in the Drift himself, entwined so tightly with another person he didn’t think he’d ever get them back out.

The invasive thought morphs, and Jon imagines it – imagines a Kaiju’s claw tearing through the helm of Night’s Watcher and gouging Giantsbane out. Jon thinks of the way the Wildling had encompassed him inside the Drift, the way his hands had grown over Jon’s own and lent him their strength.

Jon thinks of the way Tormund’s laughter had tasted, the way it had filled dark places inside his soul he’d not even known he’d had. He thinks of the golden laughter and the sound of his heartbeat, thundering alongside his own. He imagines that all being snuffed out – a lump swells in his throat and Jon digs his teeth into his bottom lip.

It’s _ridiculous._ It’s utterly ridiculous, but Jon also knows he’s been irrevocably changed – they both had been. The Drift changes people, forges bonds that only death could sever. Whatever it was he felt, it was genuine, and it was burning, and it had been making his teeth itch for days now.

It was hitting a fever pitch as Jon thought about what Greyjoy had seen, about what Robb had been through, as he imagined himself or Giantsbane facing the same thing. Suddenly the walls were too vast around him and he was anchorless, chest so tight and yet so empty all at once.

“Let him know I came by, will you?” Jon murmurs to Arya. His cousin arches a too-clever brow up at him.

“I will,” she replies wryly. “Tell Giantsbane we say hello. And congrats.”

Sucking in a cheek, Jon steps back from the two rangers and heads down the corridor, feeling a little too big for his skin. He shoves through the door and trots down the metal stairs sweeping down from the hospital and into the Shatterdome’s bustling hallways proper.

_Tell Giantsbane we say hello._

Jon huffs and runs a hand through his hair. Arya did always know him best – always knew when he was bullshitting or running from something – though if he’s being honest, he doesn’t know if he’s running to or away from it. He’s cleanly divided in two, one half of him wanting nothing more than to turn away from it and the other half – the selfish half, the half that burned hot and a little too wild, wanted to dig into it with tooth and claw.

He turns down one of the corridors leading towards the bunks and slumps back against the cool steel wall, sweeping his thumb over his lip. His heart is spiraling into a frenzy under his breastbone – and for what? For a man he’s known all of two weeks? He shakes his head and glances down to his watch; it’s nearing midnight now, but he knows Tormund will be awake. Jon’s gut twists and he slides a palm down his face, hating that it shakes a little.

_Stay in the fight._

_Stay with me._

The ember inside his gut flares, and Jon thinks of gold and green apples and smoke. He chews his lip and breathes in deep, breathes in until his lungs burn, and then pushes away from the wall.

The door to Giantsbane’s bunk is a familiar one now – though Jon has only ever stepped inside twice. It’s marked by huge vinyl stickers, most of some brewery Jon’s never heard of, bands he knows vaguely of, and, oddly, flowers. Jon splays a hand over the cool steel as he mounts the steps leading up to the threshold, and his breath becomes a lump at the back of his throat.

Not two heartbeats after he knocks, the door hisses open. Giantsbane leans against the jamb, stripped to his waist, long hair still damp and draped over one huge shoulder. Jon’s heart gives a graceless little stumble and he inhales quick and sharp; the ranger arches a brow, then shoves away from the jamb and gestures Jon inside. The bunk is cluttered, but not dirty. Books litter the low coffee table that sits in front of a grey sofa, and an old widescreen television plays soft EDM in the background, the thump pulsing through the steel floor beneath Jon’s feet.

It smells like cigarettes and shampoo and like the incense burning on the coffee table. To the left is a bathroom, tiny and clean, and to the right is Tormund’s bunk, unmade and piled with pillows. Jon hovers in the doorway, even after it’s shut, and the ranger leans against a counter with his arms folded over his broad chest, a set of old dog-tags gleaming in the crevice of his pecs.

“Heard the young wolf’ll make a full recovery,” Giantsbane says blithely after a beat, and Jon can feel the burn of his gaze. “Something of a miracle, that.”

“It is,” Jon says. “And you helped make that happen. Any longer on that beach and he probably would’ve died – or lost his memory entirely.”

Tormund grunts and tilts his head. “How’s Greyjoy?”

“Shaken. But fine.”

“But you’re not.”

“And what makes you say that?”

“You’re here.”

A pause. Jon chews his lip, contemplates leaving. He thinks of the sharp tang of desire that had flooded through the both of them when they were close to breaking in the Jaeger and doesn’t.

“Maybe I wanted to see you.”

_Maybe? Coward._

Jon halts when Giantsbane sidles towards him. The man smells of smoke and cedar, of something vaguely metallic and the snap of ozone. He searches Jon’s face with his keen gaze and Jon knows, in that moment, that the man never really needed the Drift ever again to be able to read his mind.

Tormund might be able to read his mind, but Jon can _feel_ him – can feel the thick, electric thrum that exists between them, has for almost two weeks. He thought at first of avoiding Tormund, but something told him it might not be possible; the man was suddenly everywhere he was, just within sight, hovering in Jon’s periphery like a fucking guardian angel.

And that was _telling_ , wasn’t it? A guardian angel, Jon thought; a gentle presence, not one that he wished he could dodge. Jon’s tongue aches when he bites it and the older ranger reaches out to cup his chin, a gesture he’s grown to expect.

“What’s hiding behind those teeth, Snow?”

“ _Horribly_ unfair that you can read me so well outside of the Drift, Giantsbane.”

“Think our profession goes to show how very unfair the world is.”

Jon’s throat goes thick. He searches Tormund’s face, drinking in the sharp jut of his cheekbones and the slender taper of his beard, the gleam of the golden beads in the braids that weave through his wild red hair. Giantsbane does the same, one thumb trailing over Jon’s jaw, and his fool heart does a flip in his chest.

“I was going to offer you a fight,” Tormund says then; “but I don’t think that’s what you need.”

“And what do you think I need?”

“A stiff drink, for starters. Fuck, a few."

Jon swallows hard. He hasn’t eaten in hours, but the more he thinks of it the better it sounds.

“Yeah. Fuck, yeah, okay.”

Giantsbane moves away then, and Jon slumps against the counter when he opens a cupboard and draws out a bottle of clear liquid – ominously not labeled – and two shot glasses. The Wildling ranger pours a generous helping in both, and Jon hesitates a moment before he takes the offered glass and puts it to his lips. It _burns._ The alcohol is a combination of the smell of gasoline and ozone, and it tastes the way diamonds look. Jon coughs and Tormund laughs again, the sound easing the liquor down his spine. He reaches out to grip Jon’s shoulder, blue eyes bright and a little wicked. Jon feels a little light-headed, but he isn’t sure if it’s the booze or just – being around the man.

“Northern liquor. Always hits harder.”

“That’s not liquor, Tor, it’s _gasoline.”_

“It’ll make you stronger. Trust me.”

“It’ll put me on the floor.”

Giantsbane laughs, the hearty sound warmer than firelight. Jon shakes himself a little and the ranger moves away, popping open a little fridge to dig out two beers. Relieved, Jon takes it when Tormund offers one out, brow arched and mouth twitching as he looms over him. Jon huffs and shoves his face away gently, heat flooding his ears.

“You’re a _menace.”_

“Ah, I’m _your_ menace now, Snow. It’ll only get worse from here.”

It drops like a stone into Jon’s gut. He sinks down onto the sofa and Giantsbane sprawls out beside him, looking all the world like a king on his throne where he leans against the arm. The man is really _all_ muscle, muscle on top of muscle; it’s ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous, and a little more than unfair.

“You angst _so_ damn loud, Snow.”

Jon huffs and takes a deep pull from his bottle – if there was ever a time to get fucking wasted, now would probably be it. The beer is light and cold, so easy going down, especially in comparison to the awful everclear.

“Theon and Robb are married,” Jon says, and isn’t sure why. He watches as Giantsbane’s brows shoot up, surprise lining his sharp features.

“No shit?”

“Robb didn’t tell anyone. Not even us – his family, I mean.”

“Isn’t Greyjoy’s dad a right cunt about that sort of thing?”

Jon picks at the label on the bottle. “He hated my uncle. Hated Robb – all of us, actually. But, yeah, he’s a fucking prick.”

“Glad Stark made it, then. Terrible thing, losing someone like that.”

This gives Jon pause. “Did… you…?”

“Oh, no.” Giantsbane tilts his head. “Mate of mine did. Mance Rayder. He was at the wall when it went down – his wife was. Well. The Kaiju swept a lot of fuckers away, and Dalla was one of them.”

There’s a soft silence, broken by the thrum of the music from the television.

“She was a civilian though,” Tormund says then, “they weren’t in the Drift. They’re damn lucky neither of them lost their fucking minds, being ripped out like that.”

His stomach churns and Jon takes another pull from the bottle, almost inhaling the booze in his haste. Feeling a little light and a lot heavy all at once, Jon looks to the Wildling to find him already watching him with edges gone soft. Jon thinks, briefly, of fleeing. It’s too much, too soon, too fast –

And at the same time, it’s not enough.

“It frightened you.”

Jon swallows hard. “Yeah,” he admits, a little hoarse. “Yeah, it did.”

“It should.” Tormund sets his beer on the table and leans forward, until Jon can smell the cedar-smoke-sage that surrounds him and he’s certain the Wildling can hear the swift thump of his heartbeat. “But will it stop you?”

“Stop me?”

Giantsbane arches a brow and doesn’t speak; Jon feels like he’s being stared through, being pulled gently apart. The man knows – he looks like he could smell the fight or flight on him, and Jon has to remember that while he felt everything the Wildling did in the Drift, the Wildling could feel him, too. They have both been changed by the Drift – and at least, Jon thinks, he isn’t alone in that.

He licks his lips and shakes his head, huffing out a humorless sound.

“It feels like I’ve been waiting all my life for this,” Jon says carefully. “Yeah, I’m – I’m fucking terrified. The thought of either one of us – of being.”

He clenches his jaw.

“This entire thing has felt like… a mistake. No _, listen.”_

“I am.”

Jon breathes out through his nose and tries to find the right words.

“Maybe it was on a whim, asking to fight me in the Dragonpit. But – all that time, all the time before that – we would’ve been Drift compatible. We’ve _been_ Drift compatible. And then when we were in the Jaeger – the pit is only an _indicator_ of compatibility. It could’ve been a fluke.”

He pauses, and Tormund remains still and quiet, gaze unwavering.

“But it wasn’t. It wasn’t a fluke. I’ve never felt anything like that. I don’t know if I would’ve felt anything like it with anyone else, either. I want to fight in this war, and I want – I want you there with me.”

He’s not good with words or sweeping speeches. It’s always been Dany’s strong suit, or Robb’s – not his. But Giantsbane looks as affected as anyone who’s ever heard his aunt or cousin speak passionately and Jon flushes, feeling lighter and lighter by the moment. His head is pleasantly fuzzy, and when Tormund reaches out to nudge his chin with a curled finger, his heart does a somersault.

“This was no mistake, Jon Snow,” Tormund says then. “I’m not known for making mistakes.”

It’s Jon’s turn to lift his brow. “I don’t know if that’s as reassuring as you think it sounds.”

“I’ve made it this far. The world’s tried to kill me plenty of times, and every time, I’ve won.”

Jon’s gaze drops to the dog-tags. He knows the Wildlings were all special ops in various countries around the world before the Kaiju burst from the ocean floor. He knows Tormund has seen more than Jaeger-combat – puckered scars from bullets mark his shoulder, his hip, his ribs. The ranger has a ragged scar over his gut Jon thinks a lesser soul might’ve succumbed to and a burn across the back of his right hand that not even a tattoo could cover up.

And then that hand is sliding over Jon’s jaw and he looks up from the dog-tags, chest twisting up tight with the way those blue, blue eyes seem to dig right through him. The air is thick, heady, and Jon doesn’t think it has anything to do with the alcohol; it’s always like this, he thinks, always fucking has been since the moment he found Tormund waiting for him outside his bunk, smoking a cigarette in a stupidly tight white tank top and ragged blue jeans.

“Giantsbane,” Jon says thickly then, before he can lose his grip on the thin, wheedling courage that winds through him, “not to be a total prat, but if you don’t kiss me I’m going to throw something.”

The low chuckle the ranger gives is enough to ignite his spine, is enough to send gooseflesh down his arms. Tormund leans close, so close, and Jon is about to clamber into his lap when his mouth just barely grazes over Jon's.

“Liked Tor better,” the man murmurs, and Jon’s breath hitches in his throat.

“Fine,” he says archly, and Jon doesn’t think his heart was going this fast even when they were facing down three kaiju and certain they were about to die, “ _Tor.”_

It comes on a gripping sigh, a clunky thing that all but clatters out of Jon’s throat. Strong hands span his waist and Jon sinks a hand into Tormund’s hair as the ranger hauls him close, tongue gently tracing the seam of his lips. The Wildling tastes like beer and mint, like the gasoline-liquor and smoke; Jon breathes only what the man gives him, parts his legs with ease when Giantsbane makes to gather him up into his lap.

Calloused palms sweep up under his shirt and Jon shudders, the ember deep in the pit of his gut shooting out sparks. He feels so heavy and so weightless, feels as if he’s caught in the Drift again. For a moment, he imagines he can feel Tormund’s heartbeat beside his own, imagines the taste of his laugh, and all he wants is this. All he wants are those tattooed hands over him, so when they slip back into the Drift, he thinks of it, feels it all over again.

Jon’s hard in his jeans as Tormund curls his tongue under his and pulls him closer, impossibly closer. His head spins and his blood is hot with the liquor rushing through it and the way Tormund’s hand fits so beautifully in the curve of his spine, huge and strong and _safe._ Reality seems to blur, becoming a dripping, oozing thing; Jon groans faintly when the Wildling reaches up and gently pries the elastic from his curls, only to sink his fingers through them instead.

“Stay,” Tormund murmurs against his throat, and Jon’s spine lights under the sweep of his palm, “stay here tonight.”

“Yeah,” Jon says after a beat, throat tight, “yeah, okay.”

Giantsbane sways back, blue eyes so bright, and Jon can’t – he can’t fucking breathe.

“I’m not fucking you,” the Wildling says gently then – Jon feels a little cold, even as Tormund smiles faintly and cups the nape of his neck, “because I can smell how fucking tired you are, and I’ve fed you booze. When I fuck you, the only thing you’ll be drunk on is me, sweet thing.”

It whips through Jon and leaves him a little speechless. He’s not drunk, per say, though he is beyond exhausted and his head certainly isn’t twisted on quite right. There’s no doubt in his mind that he wants Tormund, wants him in any way he can get him, but the man’s drawn a line and Jon certainly doesn’t ever want to cross it. He tips in close as a surge of relief rolls through him and noses over Giantsbane’s cheek, growing lax in his grip. Tormund gives a hum of approval.

The Wildling herds him gently off his lap then; there’s a bulge in his jeans that leaves Jon more than a little breathless, though he barely has time to focus on it before there are hands on his hips and a mouth back over his own. Tormund walks him towards the bunk and Jon slides his arms up around his thick neck, drawing himself up as close as he can possibly get to the broad span of the Wildling’s chest.

He’s wonderfully, fantastically solid against Jon, body thrumming with strength, hot as a furnace _._ Clever hands snap his belt open with ease and Jon sways back to strip his shirt off, though he leaves his boxer-briefs where they are, slung low on his hips. Tormund strips out of his jeans, leaves his own grey boxer-briefs on, and slides back onto the bunk, and Jon – Jon feels oddly vulnerable when he follows, stomach a wild tangle that doesn’t settle until strong hands coax him down.

Tormund slides a hand over his cheek and pushes Jon’s curls behind his ear, tracing the shell and the silver piercings that weave down to the lobe. He looks almost reverent when he touches Jon, and Jon – he doesn’t know what to do with it. No one has ever looked at him like this, like he’s part god even outside the cusp of a metal giant.

“You’re a _romantic,_ aren’t you?” Jon asks softly, though he knows he’s flushing. Tormund laughs, a bright, addicting thing, and Jon yelps when the man surges up, rolling him back into the sheets to hover on an elbow over him.

“Seems you inspire it,” the bigger man growls, nosing over his crown. He’s huge, big enough to shield Jon entirely from view, and a little thrill rushes through him at the thought of it. “Don’t know how you make a man soft and strong all at once, Snow, but you do.”

“If I have to use your name, _Giantsbane,”_ Jon says, prodding at his muscled side, and the man barks out a surprised laugh – information that Jon stores away for later – “then you need to use mine.”

Lips meet his ear and Jon squirms. “ _Jon,”_ the Wildling growls, and it shoots right down to his tired cock, “that better?”

Jon hums absently and arches a brow. “Might need to try it a few times before it fits.”

Tormund’s huge hands span his ribs and Jon slides his arms back around his neck, the thrill of it as addicting as anything.

“Jon,” the ranger murmurs, kissing over his jaw, and Jon’s heart thunders like it’s about to break from his chest, “Jon,” and then he’s kissing down his throat, “ _Jon,”_ and the man says it against his lips, and it’s the best thing Jon has ever tasted. He feels like a teen having his first kiss all over again, feels as if they’ve done this a thousand times before and yet it’s still so new.

Two impossible things, but here they are. Tormund slides down onto the bed behind Jon and gathers him close, nosing into his nape with all the affection of a man starved for it, and Jon takes it as if he’s waiting to drown in it.

Jon isn't one for clichés, but he has to admit, it feels a little like he’s a puzzle piece that’s found the rest of the picture with which he’s supposed to fit. Maybe it’s because he’s pleasantly tipsy – the clear shit is deadly, he reminds himself, remember that – but it’s all he can think, all he can feel.

He’ll let himself be clichéd, at least for now. He'll stay here, right here, and put aside the fear of the next time – of the next time they step into a Jaeger and all the what if’s begin. It’s a miracle that Robb survived as whole as he did, and if that miracle came, perhaps more would follow.

**Author's Note:**

> yes there will be more chapters and even more after that this will be serialized like ice & iron and will be Big.
> 
> the jaeger pairs/groups i have are  
> \- sansa and margaery  
> \- robb and theon  
> \- arya and the hound (murder dad and murder daughter guess which jaeger is theirs)  
> \- the sand snakes  
> \- jaime and cersei


End file.
